Absent
by Simon920
Summary: Dick's home injured and his tutor is suspicious about the doings at Wayne Manor.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes.

**Absent**

"Alfred, I need you downstairs, please."

"Of course, on my way, sir."

Alfred heard the faint note of worry in the voice coming from the intercom, which was enough to let him know that the problem was with the Young Master and that it was serious.

Down in the cave the Batmobile was parked slightly off its usual mark, both doors left open and the medical gurney a few yards away in a bright pool of light—evidence of the haste in which it was parked.

Robin, his costume opened as far as his navel was torn and edged with blood, the boy slightly writhing in pain and unmistakably moaning. Bruce, his cowl thrown back to expose his matted and sweaty hair, was starting the oxygen, the mask already in place on Dick's face.

Not wasting time asking questions, Alfred moved to see what he'd be dealing with and whether or not Leslie needed to be called as Bruce filled him in. "Knife wounds to his chest but they don't appear to have hit any major organs or arteries. 'Probably severe sprains to his shoulders and back, possible tendon and ligament damage."

Alfred nodded, yes, so it seemed. "The bleeding has almost stopped, at least external bleeding at any rate. His blood pressure is low but stable and he's breathing on his own. Please gown yourself and assist me. X-rays first then we'll do what we can." Bruce helped him on with a sterile gown and gloves. Dick, in obvious pain and equally obviously trying to be stoic, watched his face as he spoke, trying to tell how badly he was injured. Pitching his voice low so that Dick wouldn't hear, he turned to Bruce; "Call Leslie, I'm concerned about internal damage."

Bruce nodded and crossed the cave to make the call without upsetting Dick, hearing Alfred say; "You'll be as good as new before you know it, now not to worry and bear with me as I lull you to sleep, Master Dick."

"I'd rather be awake, I hate anesthesia."

"No doubt, but I prefer my patients not talking back and second guessing if you don't mind, now off to dreamland with you."

Leslie arrived twenty minutes later, giving Bruce a look that used to make him cringe when he was younger and could still reduce him to a six year old caught doing something unforgivable. There would be questions later and he's have a lot to answer for.

The surgery took over two hours as the numerous damaged muscles, veins and a nick to Dick's spleen were repaired.

"Seven stab wounds—how could this happen? Wasn't he wearing a vest under his costume?"

"Of course he was..." Alfred started—as always—to come to Bruce's defense then stopped. "How could you allow him to go out without one?"

Bruce hesitated, embarrassed. "He always complains that it's heavy, hot and restricts his movements." The other two looked at him in disbelief. "I know, don't say it. I know."

This could have been avoided. This was his fault.

"He'll recover but it's going to be at least two weeks before I'll allow him to get out of bed—tie him down if you have to but I suspect that won't be a problem for the first week, at least. He'll need an antibiotic IV drip and no solid food until I say so. And he's going to need PT for weeks, probably months before he can even think about going 'out' again and that's nonnegotiable, is that understood?"

Bruce nodded.

Leslie picked up her coat and fixed Bruce with a look. "I hold you completely responsible for this, do you understand? This is inexcusable, _completely_ inexcusable. Do I actually have to remind you that Dick is barely sixteen years old and you're supposed to be the adult in this relationship?" She shook her head. "I'm disappointed in you, Bruce."

"Yes, of course I understand but I'm afraid that he may be absent for at least a week and likely a bit longer…of course, yes...he was rather lucky, indeed. It was quite a frightening accident and when we saw that the car had actually rolled over the embankment...no, not at all, no problem in the least…I'd greatly appreciate if you could, yes…thank you, sir."

Alfred replaced the handset into the phone recharger and considered what on earth they were going to do about this. The cover story about Dick crashing a car on the estate property would hold up and the wrecked BMW Z would satisfy anyone who insisted on seeing for themselves. The Master hadn't cared about the car, there were bigger issues at stake than a replaceable machine.

Tutors; the school was insisting that Dick be tutored while he recovered and it didn't sound unreasonable considering that he was in his junior year of high school. This was the year grades would receive the most attention from the various colleges that he would be applying to in due course. The principal had also mentioned that while Dick's grades were good, he had missed quite a lot of school and, well, he couldn't afford to fall behind.

* * *

Mr. Tabor stopped his car at the ornate gate, the one guarded by a couple of what seemed to be larger than life sized marble rampant lions and pushed the talk button on the electronic keypad.

"Yes?"

"Jeffrey Tabor, I have a tutoring session with Richard Grayson at ten."

"Of course. Please follow the main drive to the house." The disconnected voice clicked off, the gates silently swung opened and he rolled through the entrance in his nine year old Honda civic, the gates closing solidly behind him.

He'd seen pictures of the 'main house' on Google last night but they didn't completely prepare him for the reality. First of all, the driveway was over two miles long; he clocked it on the way in. Then the house itself, such as it was, was massive and not in the McMansion kind of way or the the way tacky giant houses are when built by throwing huge amounts of money randomly to impress the peasants. This was—there was no other word for it—stately. It had class, roots, it had weight and in a good way. You could imagine giants of industry, leaders of the free world, Nobel prize winners working and relaxing in the safe confines of the place. It felt _real_.

Ignoring several forks and side roads leading to god knew what areas of the estate, he stopped his car in the circular parking area near what could only be the front door and got out just as a young woman came running around the corner of the building, shrieking with laughter and followed by Bruce Wayne himself, both clad only in wet bathing suits.

The woman, blonde and pneumatic, allowed herself to be caught on the front terrace, squealing and submitting when Wayne straightened up, arms still around the woman and looked straight at his visitor.

"'Help you?"

"...I'm here to tutor Richard..."

"Dick? He's inside, c'mon, he's expecting you." The two led him through the door, unconcerned about their semi-clad state. "Alfred? The teacher is here." Wayne looked at Jeff, "'Sorry, I forget myself sometimes. I'm Bruce Wayne and this is Chrissie." He held out his damp hand to be shaken.

His hand in Wayne's, Jeff tried for cool. "Jeff Tabor, 'how do you do?"

"Great. Say, when you're done, if you want to take a swim..."

"Thanks but I think I'm good. Richard?"

"Alfred will show where he is. 'Good to meet you." Followed by Bruce and Chrissie disappearing through another door which was soundly slammed shut behind them.

They were replaced by a liveried butler. "If you'll follow me, sir." Jeff did as requested and they walked up the main staircase, a curving, massive mahogany creation with carpeting which threatened to sink them up to their ankles. A few corridors and turns later the butler lightly knocked on a closed door then opened it, gesturing Jeff inside.

"Master Richard, Mr. Tabor is here, if you'd be good enough to give him your attention."

The young man, strikingly good-looking with dramatic coloring—dark hair, tanned and with striking blue eyes but in obvious pain, maneuvered himself off the bed. Wearing jeans and a sweater which could have only been cashmere, he managed to get himself upright with the aid of crutches and a slight tightening of his lips then held out his hand to be shaken. "Thanks for coming. I'd really hate to fall behind."

Jeff gave him a hard look to see if the kid was being sarcastic but couldn't find anything but sincerity and noticed the edge of white bandages showing above the v-neck opening. "Would you like to work in here?" He glanced at the desk as the boy nodded then pulled up a second chair. "Okay, let's start with history, okay?"

"Sure, whatever."

The butler softly coughed. "Excuse me Mr Tabor, would you care for some coffee or a soft drink, perhaps some juice?"

"I don't want to be any trouble, thanks."

"It's no trouble, I assure you."

"Coffee?"

"Black, thank you."

"Master Richard, slippers, please, no point in catching a chill." Kneeling to help the young master be shod, he easily straightened, nodded and left.

"Don't let Alfred get to you, he's all right, just a little stiff sometimes." Richard smiled in private amusement at his discomfort. "It took me a while to get used to this, too."

Jeff risked a smile in return and relaxed a little, the kid seemed all right, thank god. "Okay, it looks to me like this should be simple enough for you, your grades are good across the board and you haven't missed too much yet. History, you were working on a report about the Nuremberg Trials—how's that coming?"

Dick tapped a few keys on his computer and showed Jeff his notes and the beginning of the twenty page paper. It looked like it could have been done by a grad student. They went over the research, the rough outline and the initial few pages then moved on to Dick's English term paper, a dissection of the symbolism in Moby Dick. The paper was finished and Jeff was impressed by the maturity of Dick's thoughts and articulation; the kid was as bright as he'd been led to believe and would have no problem staying up with his classes.

After two and a half hours they took a break, Dick making his way painfully down to the small dining room, apologizing to Mr. Tabor ("You might as well call me Jeff.") for the formality. "I usually eat in the kitchen when I'm just having lunch but Alfred insists on maintaining his own standards when someone's here, sorry."

Lunch was a perfectly prepared poached salmon with a side of new potatoes and a garden salad fresh from the greenhouse.

There was no sight of Wayne and his companion.

"So how did you get hurt? The school said something about a car accident, was that it?"

Dick nodded but didn't say take it any further or offer any details. Closed subject, apparently.

The silence went on a minute or two then verged into awkward. "...Do you just do tutoring or do you have regular classes as well?"

"I'm working on my doctorate and this helps pay the bills. I met one of board members over at Brixton through an old college friend and he hooked me up so I've been doing this for a few months for kids like you, ones who are sick or injured or something."

"What's your doctorate in?" The kid was clearly just being polite and didn't care.

"Marine Biology. My specialty is mid-range siphonophores and invertebrates."

"So what are you doing in Gotham? Shouldn't you be in California or Florida or Hawaii or someplace like that?"

"Massachusetts, actually. I want to work with Woods Hole, but I need money and—no offense—but this pays pretty well for now and I can work on my dissertation at the same time."

"'Nice to know I have some value, I guess." Dick's not quite hidden smile let out that he was joking, thank god. He was also thinking that if he was in the mood to be really nice and if this guy turned out to be okay, maybe he could also get hooked up with some Atlanteans and ace that job up at Wood's Hole. Maybe. No reason to jump the gun on this, he could wait and find out if he was a jerk or not.

Time would tell.

"Finished? We might as well get the math out of the way." He stood up, making clear that he was ready to move on and was done with the small talk. The rest of the day went well, Richard was bright and a good student, though he was clearly tired by the end of the session. "Would it be easier on you if we met for a shorter amount of time?"

"Of course, but the work needs to get done; I'll be fine. 'Tuesday?"

Jeff nodded, "'See you at ten."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**  
Part Two**

The next couple of weeks went smoothly, Richard ("Please just call me Dick.") continued to make such steady progress in his school work that Jeff wondered why he was even needed, obviously the kid was self-motivated and could handle everything on his own without problem. Every day he'd show up at the main gate, be buzzed in and find the boy dressed and ready to work, his previous assignments finished, checked and in shape to be turned in for grading and usually ahead in the reading for whatever they'd planned to do that particular day.

Privately, Jeff envied the kid's ability to concentrate, his intelligence and most of all, his extreme motivation. Somehow, despite living with that moron, Bruce Wayne, the kid was turning out as well as any parent could hope. Looking over a perfect math assignment, he wondered aloud why he was even there.

"The school insisted when they heard that I might be out for a couple of months. Whatever." He looked across the lunch table, a half smile on his face. "Besides, you need the money, don't you? That's what you told me the first day you came here, anyway."

Jeff was taken aback, this was the first time the kid had said or done anything that verged on snotty or rude and he wondered where it was coming from. 'Bad day? "'You think I'm a pity hire?"

"No, the school pretty much insisted but we both know I can do this on my own just fine.

Bruce just didn't feel like bucking the system." He gave a half glance towards the feminine squeals coming from the patio. "He's busy."

"...Oh." He took a sip from his iced tea. Wayne had made a few appearances while he'd been there to help Dick but so far he'd come across as semi-moronic, horny and superficial. How the boy had ended up the yin to his guardian's yang was anyone's guess. "How are you feeling now, 'the injuries healing?" They never talked about anything even vaguely personal and Jeff was always aware that he was the hired help. Not that anyone said anything (aside from Dick's comment just now), it was just sort of there, hanging in the air. There was the inner circle of 'the family' and there was everyone else.

"I'm getting better, but it's taking longer than anyone thought it would."

"'You're bored stuck hanging around,I guess, right?"

Dick nodded but didn't elaborate. There was no way to tell the tutor that he missed flying, hanging with the Titans and being Robin. Soooooo no way he was going there.

"'Your friends come over?"

"They're busy." ...Fighting crime, cleaning up drug dealers, patrolling—the usual...

"Are you still in much pain?"

Dick shook his head, lying without words. He felt it every time he moved, stood up, tried to find a comfortable position in bed. When he tried to do the PT Leslie had suggested he'd popped stitches and set himself back at least two weeks. All right, maybe he'd pushed too hard, but crap, he was a professional athlete, right? He was used to pushing and working through pain; it was what he did.

Jeff kept his thoughts to himself when the boy's face had a sheen of sweat on it from pain or when he was simply too exhausted to work any longer. He knew there was a doctor making house calls and tending Dick but he simply didn't seem to be healing as quickly as a healthy young man should be and something didn't seem right about the kid. He was hiding something and Wayne wasn't any help, too busy getting laid to give the youngster any real notice. The only other person who might be in a position to say or do anything, that butler was too stiff to care about anything beyond his prescribe duties; cooking, cleaning and whatever else it was that butlers did.

Under the veneer of money and manners, it was the coldest damn house he'd ever been in.

* * *

A month into the tutoring arrangement Jeff was slightly surprised to be led to the huge conservatory instead of Dick's bedroom suite for the day's work. He found Dick seated in a cushioned patio chair by a glass table, surrounded by fully grown trees and beside a koi pond the size of a two car garage, all under glass and wrought iron. The room was at least fifty by fifty feet and yet another example of how the other half lived.

"Nice."

"Yeah, I like it in here."

"You look tired, are you sure that you're up to this today?" Dick hesitated. "You're caught up in every subject, you could afford to take a day off if you want."

"Thanks, but I'd rather get ahead if we can."

Jeff gave him a slightly too long appraising look. "If that's what you want." That afternoon he left an hour early, without complaint from his pupil.

* * *

The next week, early Monday morning Jeff went up to Dick's room, surprised to see the doctor there, changing the boy's dressings. Dick was sitting on the edge of the bed, jeans on and shirt off and the sight of the boy's naked chest caused him to force himself not to stare.

Jesus.

A car accident?

A car accident more than a month before had cause _that? _Bruising still discolored the kid's chest and back with half healed surgical looking scars, new stitches plainly showing against the pale skin where Dick had apparently torn incisions.

Jesus.

This wasn't from any damn car accident, the news reports and photos of the ruined car notwithstanding. Something or someone had beaten the hell out of the kid—maybe it was an accident, maybe it as on purpose, but this wasn't caused by rolling a car. Jeff had grown up in a tough neighborhood and he knew a beating when he saw one, and this looked like it had been administered by more than just fists.

"I'll be finished in a minute, would you mind waiting outside?"

"Sorry—sure, I'll just be..." The door closed with Jeff on the outside.

Car accident my ass.

Twenty minutes later he and Dick were going through some calc problems. "'You okay?"

The boy didn't bother to look up. "'Fine."

"Your injuries, they look—I don't mean to pry..."

"Then don't."

On the way out Jeff slowed his car by the ruined BMW, still sitting near the main door as a reminder to Dick to be careful. He found himself shaking his head; it didn't make sense.

* * *

Laying in bed that night he thought about what he'd seen, thought about what he should do about it. Someone or something had beaten the crap out of the kid and it was being covered up, both figuratively and literally and apparently with Dick's cooperation.

Okay, so why?

Why would the boy keep his mouth shut? Why would Wayne let it happen—and did Wayne even know the extent of the injuries? That doctor would have to report any suspicions, it was the law and would risk losing her license if she didn't, assuming she suspected anything, right?

And if he suspected and didn't say or do anything to protect the kid—who was a minor—then he was culpable and could be accused of allowing child abuse to continue or whatever that charge was called and he knew it would be a frigging mess.

Well, shit.

And let's not forget that he was dealing with Bruce Wayne here, Mr. One of the Richest Men in the World, Mr. Has an Entire Legal Department, Mr. Don't Screw With Me.

But maybe Wayne didn't know, right?Maybe he really was as vapid as he seemed and maybe he just hadn't noticed.

Uh-huh, yeah, right.

Double shit.

Sighing and giving up on sleep, Jeff knew he had to do what he had to do.

The next morning he was led to the conservatory again, Dick was sitting at the glass table with his books spread out and his laptop open for business and typing away. "Hi."

"Good morning, you working on the essay?"

"'Just finishing, as soon as I run it through spel-chek you want to take a look at it?"

"Sure."

Dick glanced over. "What?"

"Huh?"

A small smile, "Don't let Alfred hear you say that."

Oh. "Sorry, 'Excuse me?'"

"You have something on your mind, what is it?"

No one ever said the boy was dumb. "Okay, this may cost me this job but...those injuries, they're not from a car accident, are they?"

Dick paused, looked up from the computer screen and regarded Jeff for a long moment. "Of course they are. Look, I have to get this done, could we get to work?"

Subject closed.

But something was just off here, something didn't jive and Jeff would bet the ranch that Wayne himself had something to do with whatever the hell was really going on there.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Part Three**

The next two days, the end of the week was awkward between Jeff and the kid. There was the proverbial two thousand pound gorilla in the room and neither one of them would say anything about it. Maybe Dick hoped Jeff would drop it, Jeff hoped that Dick would open up at least a little so he would know the boy wasn't in any active danger.

It was a silent stalemate.

Then on Friday afternoon, as Jeff was leaving he walked past a door on the first floor, one which had always been closed but now was opened just a crack, like someone hadn't been careful when they pulled it shut. He could hear Wayne inside talking to someone on the phone (or so he assumed, anyway).

"No, I've told you that won't work, he's tried the PT and he ended up tearing a dozen stitches...Of course he has to get back in shape before he can go out again and I know that the longer he waits the harder it's going to be for him but...Yes, the new uniform _is_ lined with Kevlar _and _insulate _and _it's as knife-proof as we can make it...Yes, I know it was my fault, all right? I'm doing everything possible to make sure it won't happen again...Fine...I know...Good, I'll see you in the morning then—oh, make it eight instead of nine so the tutor isn't here yet, all right?...Right, thank you."

Jeff hurried down the carpeted hallway but the idiot was gone, the voice he'd just heard was clear, decisive and in command. Either Wayne had a twin or he was two people. It was sort of creepy. Doing his best to wipe anything off his face but professionalism, he walked into the conservatory and tried to to sound normal as he wished Dick 'Good morning'.

Later that night, unable to sleep, Jeff put what he knew about Dick Grayson together to try to figure this out. Today he had the feeling that Dick could almost read his mind and suspected his tutor knew exactly where his injuries were from and they had nothing to do with the wrecked car parked out front.

Someone had badly beaten the kid and likely come close to killing him. There were only a very few reasons he could think of why anyone would do that (assuming that he was right, anyway):

Somehow Dick really, really pissed off the wrong person. Maybe.

There'd been some kind of kidnapping attempt, what with Dick being multi-zillionaire Wayne's legal ward. That actually was a real possibility, especially when you saw the amount of security Wayne had the place fortified with. Even with his untrained eyes he could see the cameras, the guards and hear the dogs and they were probably just the tip of the iceberg.

Dick hung with seriously the wrong crowd. Could be but he _really_ didn't seem like the type.

Dick wasn't who or what he presented himself to be. Bingo. Well, probably.

and that led to the possibilities of who and what he really was

He was involved in some really bad stuff—drugs? Gambling? Gangs? Unlikely. Possible but he didn't need the money, he seemed too straight and he was watched too closely to do anything in secret without Wayne or that butler becoming suspicious.

He was one of the local heroes and had been hurt battling bad guys. This was seriously starting to look like the most likely scenario and that kind of scared the hell out of Jeff.

Okay, there was also the possibility that the kid was just a total and complete klutz or a seriously crappy driver but having spent time with him, that seemed like a real long shot. He was smart, he was educated beyond his years as far as school went, he was socially advanced since he was raised by Wayne and that butler and he seemed to be pretty independent. He had, and this was a strange concept, class and it had been born and bred in him somehow.

So how did he get hurt? Really—what happened that more than a month after the fact Dick was still using crutches and seeing a doctor almost daily?

Jeff looked down the list and crossed off almost everything except the last two—Dick was either caught up in something bad (hell, that actually could happen to almost anyone) or he was a professional boy-scout and the more Jeff thought about it, the last seemed like the most obvious answer.

Let's run with this...

Okay, so who was he?

That seemed ridiculously clear once he accepted the possibility; Brixton was less than ten miles from Gotham. Wayne had the money and the spare time to devote to—yeah, stupid as it sounded, Wayne made sense as Batman and so that would make Grayson Robin.

Jesus.

And Robin would be in a position to get the hell kicked out of him by people who knew how to do some serious kicking.

It made sense.

Holy crap, it made a lot of sense.

Wayne had the money and possible incentive to finance Batman. He'd been a crime victim when he was a kid; was there anyone who didn't know that his parents had been murdered? He had the time and connections to travel anywhere in the world, meet anyone, come and go at will.

And Dick—he'd been a crime victim as well and the two stories were pretty close when you came down to it; two kids, a generation apart, both orphaned in similar circumstances, both with motive to get vengeance or closure of whatever. Both were athletic, both skied and jumped out of planes and stuff.

And both were smart if you stretched just enough to assume that Wayne's idiot persona was a cover and that wasn't too hard after today's overheard conversation.

He got out of bed and opened his computer, surfing anything that might either back up or refute the conclusion he suspected was the only possible answer.

He ended up with a bunch of stuff that seemed to confirm it, starting with the fact that there hadn't been any mention of Robin in the news for about a month. That wasn't unheard of, but it wasn't exactly the norm, either, especially for the local papers. The surfing took a couple of hours and when he finally lay down again he still had trouble falling asleep. What if he was right and Batman decided that he needed to be silenced for security? What if he had to go into a witness protection thing? What if Robin was disappeared for his own safety?

What if Batman found out what he knew and was pissed?

What if Jeff's car blew up some morning when he started the ignition?

Maybe he should leave town, no forwarding address? Maybe he should confess to the Bat and beg for mercy?

Oh god—he was doomed.

No way out, no way out, no way out...

* * *

He overslept. His eyes finally opened, he looked blearily over at the clock on the windowsill; 10:47.

Oh crap. Jesus. He was dead.

Scrambling, he dressed in record time, paused long enough to scrub the crust of crud off his teeth and skipped shaving. His tires left marks in the driveway and he only avoided a speeding ticket because the cop had already pulled over someone else.

Trying for cool, he followed the butler out to the south terrace where the young master was sitting in the sun while he read—what was it—the advance biology text.

"Hi, sorry to keep you waiting."

"You didn't."

Of course he didn't, they'd already established that the kid didn't need him. And now Dick was staring at him. Well, he wasn't really staring, it was more like he was studying him, regarding him, taking his measure.

Oh...crap.

"Dude, c'mon, PT time." A red-haired boy came though a door on the other side of the terrace. He was about Dick's age and build but had more of an attitude about him, he was a smart-ass and it showed in every line of him. Jeff disliked him on sight.

"Later." Dick was still contemplating his tutor.

"Doctor says now."

"I'm busy. Jeff Tabor, this is Roy Harper. Roy, Jeff Tabor. Jeff is my tutor til I get back to school. Roy's a friend of mine."

"Yeah, hi. C'mon, Dick, Alfred will pitch a fit if you don't stay on schedule because Leslie will pitch a fit if you don't and if she gets pissed then Bruce will catch hell and then your life will suck more than even you can comprehend." The smart-ass gave Jeff the barest of glances. "You must have some papers to correct or something, right?"

"Not really."

"Roy, fuck off."

"Not until you get your ass over to the gym. You wanna come, Teach? Swim a few laps, lift some weights?"

This was a no-win situation and maybe, just maybe if he could see Dick really moving, maybe (dear god, please) he could see that the kid couldn't ever, in anyone's wildest dreams, be Robin.

"Sure, let's all go. Healthy body, healthy mind."

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**  
Part Four**

Dick started (and set the pace ) by changing into a pair or swim trunks and walking down the steps into the heated pool. "There are spares in the first changing room over there, help yourself." The scars were still obvious and raw but seemed to be better than they were the last time Jeff had caught a look at the boy without his shirt on. Good. He turned to the changing room and by the time he came out Dick was swimming slow laps, taking it easy and probably using the swim as his warmup.

Sticking his foot into the water Jeff was pleasantly surprised to find it was warm and a quick look at the tied off thermometer showed the water to be a comfortable eighty-five degrees. Not a strong swimmer, he stood in the shallow end, the water lapping at his ribs while Dick swim back and forth. Roy sat in a soft chair watching.

"How do you and Dick know each other?"

Roy's eyes stayed on Dick, seeming to study how well he was moving, whether he was having any trouble and then subtly relaxed when his friend seemed all right. "We have some hobbies in common and my guardian knows Bruce so..." He gave an apathetic half-shrug. "We hang out sometimes."

Jeff didn't have an answer for that beyond asking straight out if the new kid had any idea if his friend was a costumed hero in his spare time. "Don't you like to swim?"

"Dick likes to work out. I like to watch." His mouth quirked up in a sudden smile. "Well, not like _that_, you understand. I mean as opposed to me doing any unnecessary exercise."

In fact Jeff was thinking who the newcomer could really be aside from just being some friend who'd dropped by to pay a visit. Red hair, good build especially in the shoulders, snotty attitude. If his theory was right, this was probably Speedy and his guardian would be Green Arrow who would know Batman through the Justice League. This just kept getting better and better.

At a loss as to what to do next, Jeff rolled onto his back and did his best to practice floating with his head submerged to above his ears, cutting off any need to engage in conversation, at least for a few minutes.

After twenty laps or so Grayson pulled himself out of the water on the edge of the pool, picked up a towel on the table and headed back to the changing room, He emerged dressed in sweats and a tee, both having the look of worn workout clothes, the kind that are used for a real session and not just to impress the girl on the next Exercycle. In the next room were set up just about any piece of exercise equipment you'd find in any well stocked gym and Dick moved over to the treadmill. Set at a moderate speed and a slight incline, he began a half hour slow jog. That was followed by another fifteen minutes lifting free weights (only fifteen and twenty pounders) and then he switched to a stair climber, again set at a moderate speed.

At the end of ninety minutes or so he stopped, wiping sweat from his face and was breathing a little hard.

"I can't believe how out of shape I am." He shook his head in disgust. Roy didn't say anything but looked up from the magazine he was leafing through.

Jeff took the bait. "You looked pretty good to me—what would a normal workout be for you? I mean before you were hurt."

"...More than this, that's for damn sure."

Roy handed him a fresh towel, "Cut yourself some slack, man, you were hurt, remember?"

"...Sucks."

"'A lot less than being dead does."

"Maybe."

Roy looked like he was about to beg to differ but was interrupted by Alfred rolling a cart into the room. "I thought that perhaps you gentlemen would like to eat a light lunch in here by the water."

Dick nodded and reached for a sandwich, "Thanks, Alf."

"Mr. Tabor, Mr. Wayne would like to speak with you, if you would be so kind as to follow me."

They walked through another maze of corridors to another wing and floor of the Manor, Jeff still privately marveling at the sheer size of the damn place. The Master was alone in what seemed to be a study. There was a football game on the huge TV and he had a copy of People opened on the sofa cushion beside him. He gave a vacuous smile as soon as they walked in the opened door.

"Mr. Tabor, thank you for joining me. You know, I've been wondering how Dick is doing in his work. I mean, he's not falling behind or anything, is he? We can't have that now."

"Dick is ahead in every subject and doing just fine. His grades should be just about straight A's."

"Gosh, that's terrific! Do you have any idea how long it may be before Dick is ready to go back to school?"

"Uh, I'd think that would be up to the doctors, Mr. Wayne."

"Why, gosh, yes. I was talking with the doctor about that just a little while ago and she seems to think that he's healing up nicely but still needs to take it easy." Bruce gave Jeff this sort of vapid smile. "You know how doctors are, always wanting to err of the safe side and all of that, right? I just wish Dick could get out some more that he's been able to the last month or so—I swear, that boy just about jumps out of his skin if he doesn't have enough to keep him busy."

"Well, maybe if he's up to it, I could take him out on some field trips. Would that be all right?"

"You mean like a trip to a museum like we used to do when I was in school? I always loved the Natural History Museum; all those stuffed animals and dinosaurs..."

"Um, sure, if you think he'd like that."

"I'd bet the ranch he'd be as pleased a punch. Y'know, I loved those—what are they called?—dioramas where they have all the stuffed animals set up like they were still in Africa or someplace. Then someone told me that someone killed them so they could be part of the exhibits and, gosh, that made me think about them dying and I remember I never really liked that museum much after that."

"Maybe Dick would prefer an art museum then."

"I guess so, but maybe you should really ask him, if you know what I mean. He's pretty smart and knows what he likes, right?"

"Yes, I'll do that since you don't mind. Thanks Mr. Wayne, Dick is quite a young man I've been impressed since the day I met him." Jeff smiled, the act, assuming that was what it was, was really well done. You'd really think Wayne had an IQ slightly above that of a house cat.

"He impresses a lot of people, he always has." Despite the vapidity, there was something in Wayne's expression which made Jeff think he was being analyzed by someone whose brain was much more attuned than his was and it was disconcerting, almost like he was a bug under a microscope.

Back in the conservatory Jeff waited for Dick to change back into his street clothes. He was making two thousand a week for this gig while it lasted and god knew he needed the money but this was getting weird and not a little creepy. He half expected to look up and see Wonder Woman walk through the door or have to pull around the Batmobile when he tried to park.

So, assuming he was right and he'd stumbled onto Batman and Robin (and Speedy and ...oh god) what would happen to him? Would they kill him? Witness Protection Program? Make him move up the the JL's satellite for the rest of his life? Lobotomy?

Ohgodohgodohgodohgod...

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**Part Five**

"Sure, the modern art museum would be fine, I read they have a big Cezanne exhibit up; might as well catch that."

"If you think you're up to it..."

Dick gave an exasperated teenaged look. "Let's go."

Jeff drove his old clunker, Dick quiet and seeming to enjoy just looking at the scenery rolling by after being cooped up for weeks in the manor. After they'd parked in the underground garage and walked up to the ticket window Dick pulled out a membership card, getting two free admissions. "Do you mind if I stop here for a second?" They were passing the information counter.

"No problem."

Picking up a phone likely there just for this purpose, Dick dialed and spoke with quiet authority. It still unnerved Jeff a little to hear Dick speak like the CEO in training he was being groomed to be. "I'd like a reservation for two at one-thiry, window seating, please...Under Wayne. Thank you." He focused on Jeff as they moved over to the entrance to the main galleries. "I thought you might like to get lunch in a couple of hours and I think I'll probably need a break by then."

"'Sounds good. C'mon, the Cezanne is through here."

Strolling through, avoiding the groups of school kids, Dick made a number of comments about the various paintings showing he knew exactly what he was looking at. Leaning a little closer to the tags and descriptions next to the paintings, Jeff counted at least six with the notation; 'Generously loaned for this exhibit by the Wayne Foundation'.

"Does Bruce collect himself or is it mainly his foundation?"

"Both. He usually buys them himself but then he makes most of them available for loan to museums through the foundation—it's some kind of tax thing I think, a charity deduction or something."

Christ, the man was rich. "That's nice of him, sharing this stuff with the public."

"I guess."

They moved on to the rest of the impressionist collection, the Van Goghs, the Monets, the Cassatts and the rest, gallery after gallery. The museum was a large one and after a couple of hours Dick was indeed ready for their lunch break. Much as he didn't like to admit it, he really wasn't back to his usual level of stamina, not even close and needed a break. Jeff started over to the staircase down to the basement cafeteria but Dick shook his head and led him over to the special elevator, the only one in the building with an attendant, and had them taken to the top floor. Stepping out onto the thick carpeting Dick gave his name to the receptionist sitting behind the inlaid desk holding a single orchid in what was likely a Steuben vase.

"Of course, Mr Grayson, down this hall and it will be on your left in about twenty-five feet, enjoy your lunch." She gave him a hopeful smile, which he either didn't notice or ignored.

"Where are we going?"

"Trustee's dining room."

Really, a hot dog would have been fine.

Dick watched his face as the host sat them by the windows overlooking the park, as requested and handed them each a thick, leather covered menu. "Enjoy your meal, gentlemen", and Jeff went a little pale at the prices as he glanced down the price list.

"It's my treat."

"That's not necessary."

"Oh, please, you're only here as part of your job; a class field trip, right?" Dick gave him a patient look. "Look, the simple fact is that I have more money than you do and, aside from that, we'll probably have our meal comped anyway. As soon as they realize who I am—okay, that was obnoxious but as soon as they realize that I'm Bruce's ward they usually waive the bill." He waited for the blank look to leave Jeff's face and when it didn't, went on. "He gives a lot of money to this place and is on the Board. They give him an occasional free lunch in exchange for him bringing in tons of donations every year."

"So they comp a multi-billionaire and the peasants have to pay."

Dick looked annoyed, a rare thing for him. "Spare me the social injustice lesson, okay? He donated over two million dollars to this place last year and managed to get his friends to give another twenty—and that's just _this_ museum. This isn't exactly a free lunch when you put it in context."

Their food arrived, a chicken sandwich for Jeff (the cheapest thing on the menu) and crab cakes for Dick. Temper tantrum over, Dick was back to his usual affable self. "So have you heard anything about your appointment to Woods Hole?"

"Not yet. I still have to finish my dissertation and I've been set back because I'm..." He stopped, embarrassed.

"Because you're spending every day drilling stuff I already know into my head and keeping me company?" Dick was smiling, but he was also telling the truth.

"Yeah, well..."

The conversation dwindled as they ate their food and gazed out the floor to ceiling windows to the adjacent park. Their waiter came by to ask if everything was all right the busboy refilled their water glasses.

When they were alone again, Dick made a simple observation. "You think there are secrets at the manor, that we're hiding something."

"I, I don't..."

"Sure you do. Have you come up with anything new or is it the usual garbage about me being Bruce's bought and paid for piece on the side?" Despite the words, Dicks voice was mild, conversational.

"I was just curious, Dick—anyone would be. It's nothing."

Dick regarded him for another long minute as the busboy removed their now empty plates.

"Excuse me gentlemen, would you like to see the dessert menu?"

Dick answered without looking at the waiter. "No, thank you, just black coffee for me. Jeff?"

"The same, thanks." The man nodded and left, used to being virtually ignored when the diners were in an obviously heavy discussion about whatever.

"'Just wondering how the other half lives?" Dick was smiling, but clearly wasn't amused.

"Yeah, right. C'mon, you have to know that life on the hill isn't exactly commonplace. I was curious, that's all. And I signed a confidentiality agreement when I was hired, just like everyone who works there has to."

Dick gave the slightest nod. "So did you see anything that might make Bruce evoke that agreement?"

"Aside from the fact that Bruce likes girls? No. I was with you practically the whole time."

Their coffee was placed in from of them, forcing another brief pause and awkward silence until the waiter left.

"That's it?"

"Well, yeah."

Dick gave him another penetrating look, it was disconcerting until his features relaxed. "So, you up for a walk through the American wing?"

* * *

"So does he know anything or is he just suspicious?"

"'Suspicious."

Bruce leaned back in his chair. "You're sure?"

"Uh-huh. If anything, I think he's trying to get an eyeful of you and the lay of the month."

"...Watch the attitude."

Dick laughed, his 'I can't believe you're actually calling me out on this' laugh. It was infectious and Bruce couldn't help but smile; the kid was right but he had a reputation to maintain, didn't he? "Okay, so should we set him up with Woods Hole or let him worry for a while?"

"Let him worry for a couple more weeks and I was thinking; what if we set him up with that international research cruise Arthur is setting up through Scripps Institute? If the recommendation came directly from King Orin that would let him meet pretty much anyone who matters and, unless he completely blows it, should get him enough contacts and an impressive enough resume to get him a steady gig."

"Is he up to the work?"

Dick shrugged. "I dunno but I gave what he has of his dissertation to Garth and he thinks it looks pretty good."

"Fine. By the way, I spoke to Leslie and your school this afternoon; you can go back the week after next but you're still grounded for at least another month before you can begin to think about flying."

Dick looked just about the way Bruce expected he would with the mixed news. "This is _good _news, Dick. It beats the alternative, you know."

Dick's expression begged to differ.

Late that night, shortly before midnight, Jeff lay in bed unable to sleep again. The outing to the museum had gone well and Dick was clearly getting better. His job would be ending in a week or so and he needed to get the damn paper finished and turned in so he could get his PhD and start looking for a real job.

And he was still pretty sure about what he as pretty sure about and it was making him crazy. What was he going to do about it? Write an expose and tell the world that he thought he knew the real identities of Batman and Robin (and a couple of the Teen Titans and JLA members for good measure)? He was basing his belief on nothing more than circumstance and his own suspicious mind. And if he did what would the repercussions be?

For starters, he had no proof so he'd be eviscerated in the press and by anyone he passed on the street. The hero community was a tight one and beloved by just about everyone on the planet who didn't have a prison record. Robin in particular was incredibly popular and a major favorite all over the world.

Then there as the question of what Batman and his friends would do if he talked and it wasn't something he wanted to devote too much thought to. He just knew it wouldn't be pretty.

And then there was the possibility that if what he knew (okay, what he _thought_ he knew) came out then it was possible that Dick and Bruce and their friends would be compromised, forced to relocate or change their identities or whatever. And if that happened then he would be personally responsible.

And he'd signed that confidentiality agreement.

Oh man.

And let's not forget that Wayne and Dick had been pretty good to him in a 'you're the hired help' kind of way. And besides that, Dick had lived through more crap than anyone should have to, let alone a kid of fifteen or sixteen.

Car accident, my ass.

Crap.

Just...crap.

TBC

28


	6. Chapter 6

**Part Six**

Another week went by, Dick was almost back to what would be normal for any other kid on the planet, though he was chafing under the restraints still placed on him—and those were just the ones Jeff knew about.

After work he met up with one of his old college friends for drinks and a burger, Jesse, another oceanographer. "I've just been given my notice by Wayne—or rather his 'man' and my last day is tomorrow at which time I'll be, as they say, 'between assignments' or out of work, if you prefer."

"C'mon, man, lighten up; you had a good ride there the last couple of months, right?

"Yeah, sure, now I'm back to mac and cheese for dinner after a filling lunch of ramen. I just hope that I find something before I run through the tutoring money and have to ask my parents for money."

"And you know they'd give it to you if you do." Jesse took a couple of fries from Jeff's plate. "So how was the Grayson kid?"

"Nice kid. Smart. Good manners."

"And Wayne?" Jeff paused a moment. "That bad, huh?"

"No, nothing like that. He's all right, I guess. He comes across as stupid but in a pleasant kind of way and once or twice It seemed like there was more there there, if that makes any sense."

Jesse kept chewing. "He was hitting on you?"

"Jesus, no. He had all these blondes around—very Playboy looking. 'Kind of creepy, actually. It's just that sometimes I got the feeling that he isn't as dumb as everyone thinks he is."

Jesse stood up on his way to the men's room. "He couldn't be that dumb, he wouldn't know where to put it if he was."

And the more time went by with him in 'the house' every day, the more he was convinced that Dick was Robin to Wayne's Batman. It all made sense when he thought about it—something he'd been doing a lot in the last month and a half. In fact, it seemed to be the only thing that made sense. Dick was obvious once you knew what to look for; intelligent, athletic—in fact he was very athletic, a former professional. He was highly motivated, a young crime victim which would provide the reason for his career choice and had a mentor in Wayne—assuming he was right about old Bruce being a hell of a lot smarter than he as usually given credit for. Plus Dick had the maturity and focus plus the tenacity it would take for Robin to be as successful as he was, add to that the kid's astounding charisma and the fact that his friends were doppelgangers for the rest of the Titans and there you have it.

And Wayne, he had money and time to burn and was also a young crime victim which, from all accounts, severely traumatized him, leading him to an empty life of wine, women and song. At least on the surface, anyway.

And there was no way he was stupid as he played it. Not possible.

Of course, this was all circumstantial. No one had made any slips. There hadn't been any stray batarangs left on the front table and the Bat copter wasn't parked on the front lawn.

But he was still certain.

So the question became what was he going to do about it?

He could make a fortune by selling the story to the media, he could try to blackmail old Bruce (now _that _was a thought—blackmailing Batman. Let's not even go there, okay?). He could...

"Hey man, you finished? The lecture starts in half an hour."

Startled, Jeff nodded at Jesse standing by the table. "Yup, let's go."

He could do...nothing. That was an option.

* * *

"Hey, Bruce, Jeff's coming over tomorrow and it's his last day; do you care?"

Bruce, or rather Batman, didn't deign to turn his head, his eyes focused on his computer monitor down in the cave. "No." He hit a few keys. "Did Arthur arrange that appointment for him?"

"Garth said he did—he was pissed, but he did it; he should be getting the offer tonight at that conference he said he'd be attending."

"Fine. Take a look at this DNA result; this proves Harvey Dent was there which means he somehow escaped from Akhram."

"...And then let himself back in? Whatever, sounds like something he would do."

"By the way, chum, I spoke with Leslie and she's not a hundred percent with you going out yet. You're under strict orders to take it easy, understand?"

"Uh-huh, sure."

"I mean it, she was serious and she'll pull your plug if she thinks you're over doing."

"And then she'll call you on the carpet, right?" He flashed his old smile, the one Bruce loved to see because it told him everything was okay.

"And you'll be right there beside me, chum."

The team of Batman and Robin was back to work.

* * *

"Thank you Dr. Ballard and that concludes the question and answer period. I'd like to invite anyone who still has some energy left to join us downstairs in the main lounge for a less formal get together."

Jeff and Jesse made their way through the crowd, trying not to stare at the superstars they were walking beside; Ballard himself, Cousteau's son, the US Admiral from the Joint Chiefs, Rod and Valerie Taylor and then, to top it all off, frigging Aquaman himself showed up and was strolling along like nothing. Holy crap and it was like they'd died and gone to heaven.

"This is sort of like going to the Oscars as the losing nominee for best assistant sound editor and ending up at the table with Spielberg and Hanks."

"Keep it cool, man. They put their wetsuits on one leg at a time. C'mon, mingle."

In fact oceanography was a pretty small society and it seemed like just about everyone knew one another, were slapping backs, trading jokes and clinking beers. Somehow they ended up in a corner with Robert Ballard and his assistant, chatting about the man's last visit to Titanic and the damage he'd noted since his first trip down. "But what I found fascinating were the uncatalogued siphonophores we saw coming and going from the surface; amazing things. We got what photos and video we could, but you know how it is, never enough time."

Jeff brightened and screwed up his nerve. "I saw those pictures on line, incredible! That transparent shrimp, the entire colony or school of them was—I'd never seen anything like it and that clip of those dumbo squid mating—that's never been captured before, has it? God, I'd kill to have been there."

Ballard and Cousteau suppressed smiles; youngsters. "May I ask what your specialty is...?"

"Jeff, Jeff Tabor. Just that—mid-range siphonophores and invertebrates."

"You're Tabor?" Ballard focused on him more closely. "I got an e-mail about you a week or two ago, you're looking for a position, right?"

Cripes. _He_ hadn't sent Ballard an e-mail, he still had to finish his paper. One of his friends was screwing with him again.

"Mr. Tabor, or is it Doctor?"

His chance, this was his chance. "Mr. for now but I'd really like to be, I mean, if you could maybe consider me for a position, even as an intern or a volunteer, anything. I can answer phones, give tours..." God, he was babbling. Stop it. Stop right now, dammit. Don't be an idiot. "Excuse me, sir. What I meant to say was that I'd be honored to even be considered for a position and it's been my life-long dream to work at Wood's Hole."

Ballard looked amused and wasn't trying to hide it too hard. "Actually I checked your references and King Orin here gave you one of the most glowing recommendations I've ever received."

"He...that was good of him, I'll have to thank him..."

"Ummm, what do you say we sit down for a few minutes and talk details?" Ballard led the way to a corner table.

* * *

Mid way through the patrol Batman noticed the tightened lips and the hidden, almost inaudible gasps and grunts from his partner. He was afraid of this; the boy wasn't healed yet and was too stubborn and anxious to fly to admit it. After another half hour he'd had enough. "It looks like a quiet night, I'm ready to go back."

Robin shook his head. "It's too early, c'mon."

"No, not tonight, I have work to do back in the cave. We're going back."

Dick knew better than to complain but also knew exactly what as happening and hated that his weakness was holding them back.

Tomorrow would be better.

* * *

At six-thirty the next morning Dick was down in the cave mid-way through his old workout when Bruce arrived to begin his own training, knowing why the boy was early and torn between pride and annoyance. There was nothing to be gained by calling him on it, though. Better to let Dick set his own pace, so long as he could keep up with it and didn't hurt himself.

By eight-thirty Dick was showered, fed and in the conservatory finalizing his last work for Jeff.

"Good morning."

"Hi. I think everything's done so if you'd go over it I guess that's it."

Jeff took his seat and picked up the first folder, labeled 'Calculus'. Flipping through the neat pages of calculations he watched Dick out of the corner of his eye. The early news had mentioned that Robin was spotted last night on patrol with Batman and it was nice to see that Gotham's roster of protectors was back at full strength. It had been an open secret that something—illness, injury, family obligations—had kept Robin out of the public eye for a couple of months and it was good to have him back.

He noticed that Dick's hands looked like he had rope burns of some kind and he wondered if they were caused by jump lines.

"This all looks good."

"I have that short story done for English, if you want to read it." He handed it over and Jeff read the five pages. It was typical of Dick's work; well done, researched, concise, literate and likely publishable.

"This is very good. Have you thought about writing for a living?"

"No."

Okay.

Dick seemed to realize that he'd been a bit short and tried harder. "'Sorry. How was that conference you were going to; that was last night, wasn't it?"

"Good, great, in fact."

"Oh?"

"I think I may have a job with Wood's Hole. Bob Ballard himself as there and somehow he knew I was job hunting so we talked and, well...I start in two weeks."

Dick raised his eyebrows, "Really? That's great, congratulations."

The boy didn't seem surprised.

Later, after lunch with everything finished, Jeff said his goodbyes to Dick who saw him to the door. Wayne was nowhere in sight. Handshakes and thank yous done, he was about to start his car when the old butler tapped gently on the driver's side window. "Excuse me, Mr. Tabor. But the master wanted you to have this with his thanks for all you've done with the young master over these weeks. He's thrived under your tutelage and it is greatly appreciated."

"Thank you, but this really isn't necessary."

"Pish tosh, Mr. Wayne insists. Now, best of luck to you, young sir."

* * *

"So do you think Tabor suspects?"

"Of course he does."

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

**Part Seven**

When Jeff got home from his last afternoon at Wayne Manor he opened the envelope the old butler had handed him. Inside was a check for five thousand dollars and a hand written note on personalized stationary; _'Thank you for all your help. Regards, Bruce Wayne.'_

Nice. Unnecessary, but very nice.

He was scheduled to start at Woods Hole in two weeks as an assistant to the head of the siphonophores department or team or whatever that group called themselves and he was still pinching himself about how he'd lucked into the job—figuratively, of course. He also hadn't the slightest clue why Aquaman, King Orin f'chrissake, would recommend him for city dog catcher, let alone a highly competitive position at one of the most highly respected oceanographic institutes on the planet.

Unless, of course, Robin put in a call and pulled some strings.

God, what to do, what to do...

* * *

"I want to find out which one of Dent's men worked me."

"I know you do and we will, it just isn't going to be easy." And Bruce didn't want Dick going off and turning a crime into something personal, even if it was personal.

"Of course it will. All we have to do is find one member of the crew and scare the crap out of them."

Dick was right, of course. They both knew this would be just another day at the office for them—as soon as Dick was back to full strength and that would be soon enough. But... "How sure are you about Tabor knowing about us?"

"Ninety-five percent. He never said anything but I'm about as sure as I can be."

"And he'll do what with this?"

Dick shrugged. "'No idea but I think that if he was going to do something we'd have caught wind of it by now."

"Not necessarily."

"I know, but probably. It doesn't gain him anything to sit on it."

We'll be watching him." Bruce turned back to his newspaper.

"Of course we will."

* * *

A month later Jeff was somewhere in the mid-Atlantic studying the specimens that other scientists brought up, he was one of a crew of thirty-five and as happy as he'd been in his life. He still believed with everything in him that Bruce Wayne had spoken to his friend King Orin to pull the stings needed to get him a berth and he was fine with that. In fact, he was fine with whatever it took to get his butt working beside the people he was and the bonus was that he found that they even liked him personally, There were days when he felt like Sally Field winning her second Oscar—They really liked him!

Okay, the money sucked but who cared? That money he'd earned tutoring Dick would see him through enough for him to finish the dissertation in a couple of months and then, with any luck he'd be appointed to permanent staff with with Wood's Hole or one of the other top places—dear God let it happen.

Then he overheard the conversation at a far table in the mess. Two of the other interns were chatting, probably thought he was asleep with his head down on the table. He wasn't.

"So who did he screw to get on board?"

"I heard he's here through the direct intervention of Aquaman himself."

"'You shitting me? How the hell did that happen?"

"Like I know? Whatever he did, I wish I knew his secret—Ballard was saying that the man called him and said that he'd take it as a personal favor to have the kid given a position."

"'A personal favor'? Holy crap."

"Yeah."

The voices faded as the two interns got up and walked out. Shit, it had to be Batman calling in a favor from Aquaman. It had to. What else could it be? There was no other explanation. And the only way that would happen would be to have Bruce call King Orin and...crap.

It worked and he was here.

Now he had to make sure that he held the job—and he was on his own as far as that was concerned.

Professional jealousy be damned.

* * *

"You thought I was dead? You thought you'd get the reward on my head?...Wrong."

"Robin, that's enough, you'll kill him."

"And this is a problem because...?"

The Batvoice. "Stop. Now." And the Batglare.

"And here I was just getting warmed up."

"I called Police Headquarters and 911 for him."

Robin smiled, "You're a nicer person than I am."

Batman said nothing, knowing that he'd only stopped Dick for his own good; the boy didn't need an internal investigation for excessive force after everything he'd been through the past few months. The boy had done what he'd wanted; the man who was on the other end of the knife was finished as a threat.

* * *

"_...And so I want to thank you again for your generosity and kindness and let you know how much I appreciate everything you've done. With gratitude, Jeff Tabor."_

Dick glanced at the body of the letter Jeff wrote Bruce one more time. There wasn't anything in it that would even begin to indicate that he suspected anything they didn't want him to suspect but that didn't mean that it wasn't out there.

"Looks okay, I guess but still..."

"I know, I have the usual tags on him and I'll be getting a report if anything is said or implied."

Dick still wasn't happy about this. "I still believe he..." He ran his hand through his hair in frustration. "He may not have proof, but he suspects, he thinks he knows."

"I know that, I'm just not as worried about it as you are."

"Why the hell not?"

Because this has happened before and we've always been able to contain it. Tabor isn't an international criminal, he has what he wants with that appointment to Wood's Hole and from everything we've learned about him, he's a decent and honest man. Let it go."

"But..."

"Come on, back to work; what do you have about that jewel theft last night?"

Dick refocused to the subject at hand bit he wasn't happy. He had a strong feeling that this could still come back to bite them in the ass, in fact, he'd just about stake the ranch on it.

* * *

Two years went by without direct word from Jeff though they received reports through their channels that the young man was doing fine, making a name for himself and acquitting himself well with his peers. His doctorate came through about six months after he left the tutoring position with Dick and he was well on his way.

Meanwhile Dick was now a senior in high school and looking at colleges. Robin was completely back to full strength, leading the Titans, working with the JLA and acknowledged as one of the top all around athletes in the country if not the world.

Everything seemed fine until that phone call five years later.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

**Part Eight**

The last few years had been rough. Batman and Robin seemed to be estranged for some reason and Robin, the character of Robin was now filled by a different kid. In fact it seemed like the costume had been filled with more than one newbie over the past few years with varying degrees of success. The original kid had to have grown up by now and there was some dispute about what happened to him; retired? Killed? Change of career? Change of alias? The rumors filled the blogs and tabloids without either denial or verification from anyone who knew the truth.

Jeff kept up with the hero community as well as he could through the legal outlets that were easily available to him, the news-magazines, the nightly newscasts, the internet. He also did what he could to keep track of Dick Grayson; not always an easy thing to do since he was still shielded behind the Wayne security barriers. He tried writing to the boy a few times, but his letters were returned unopened and he wondered if that was just Wayne's standard procedure or whether it was a conscious effort to keep him at arm's distance. But he did the best he could and had enough ego to wonder of Dick ever gave him a thought as the years went by, though he never heard from the boy, now a young man.

And in those years he never once told anyone his suspicions about who wore the masks, their real names nor where they lived.

One night he was up late (he still suffered from insomnia now and then), just surfing the web looking for any new updates. Michelle, his current live-in, was a fellow oceanographer who would be reassigned in a few months, neatly ending a relationship which was starting to bore them both. But for now...

"Jeff, come back to bed."

"In a minute."

"You always say that."

"I always mean it." He'd just found a mention of an Officer Richard Grayson, BPD, injured in the line of duty a couple of days before.

He looked further; _Officer Richard Grayson, 23, and new to the local force, was shot while preventing teenaged gang members from robbing a local bodega after brutalizing Juan and Rosalie Gonzales, both 75. The popular couple have owned and run the neighborhood establishment for twenty-five years. Officer Grayson is expected to make a full recovery in time to receive an award for heroism for his part in stopping the attempted robbery._

There were no pictures but it had to be him. It had to be. He tried to verify that this was 'the' Richard Grayson, the former ward of Bruce Wayne but had no success. Maybe they were still estranged. Maybe Dick finally got tired of being second banana, maybe he got tired of having a price on his head. Maybe he just grew up, who knew?

Anyway, so Dick grew up to be a cop—it almost seemed preordained when you thought about it since it would give him the perfect excuse to see what was going on before any public announcements and allow him to work unknown from the inside. And let's not forget that his parents were murdered, right? He had every reason to go in that direction, Batman or no Batman.

Wayne had to either be incredibly pissed or incredibly proud. Or both.

"Jeff?"

"In a minute."

Exasperated sight. "At least you didn't say you were coming."

* * *

A year later and it was a normal Christmas with the family, if your family was named Tabor. Mom was drunk, Dad was with his girlfriend, Nance (his older sister) was fighting with the father of her two year old, Jason (the middle child, Jeff's big brother) was on probation again for his fifth DWI without a license and Jeff was wishing to hell that he was somewhere in the middle of an ocean somewhere.

Just putting the fun in dysfunction yet again.

After the dry turkey, the lumpy mashed potatoes and the still frozen peas they were sitting around the tree with their burnt pre-made apple pie and opening presents. Jase handed Jeff a wrapped box he knew wold contain a red turtlenecked sweater because his mother always gave him a red turtlenecked sweater.

Taking his dirty plate into the kitchen Jeff watched Jason opening another beer. "Don;t you think you've had enough tonight?"

"Screw you, baby brother; I'm just enjoying the Christmas spirit in my own, my own, you know, my own humble way."

"You working now? You're hanging in Bludhaven now, right? You still looking for a job?"

"Yeah, whatever. I'm waiting for, I'm waiting for a ..." He railed off, forgetting his train of thought for a moment before finding it again. "A management position."

"'Should be any minute."

"Yeah well, _Doctor,_ how's about you goin' and fucking yourself, huh?" Jeff just shook his head, another year of status quo. Jason, already more than three sheets to the wind answered the ringing phone

"Yeah, he's always a pain in the ass, self righteous bastard."... "Yeah, I'm there."... "Twenty minutes? Fuck, yeah I'm sober as a damn priest."... "Okay, ten minutes. 'Later." He grabbed his old jacket from the rack of hooks by the door. "'Got somethin' to do, see you in the mornin' if you're here."

"Where are you going?"

"'Work to do."

"What work?"

"Nothin' that concerns you, Baby Bro, you just get yourself some beauty sleep, y'hear?"

Jeff didn't like this, not even a little. "I'll drive you, you're drunk."

"'Ain't drunk, screw yourself."

"I don't drive, you're not goin'."

Even as drunk as he was that Jeff meant it. "Sure, fine, you might learn somethin'."

Jason, trashed and not the brightest bulb on the tree on a sober day directed Jeff to the Band-shell in Melville Park. They drove by slowly as Jeff gave the several cars and group of maybe a dozen low-lifes seemed to conduct business out of a couple of car trunks. Though he'd never seen a drug buy, especially a large scale one, he'd have bet the ranch that this was what was going on.

"'These your friends?"

Jason nodded. "We do business sometimes."

"You're into drugs now?"

"Shit, no—I'm smarter than that. (Jeff wold have debated but saw no point.) This is a set-up, y'know, set the trap and catch a rat or a mouse or somethin'." He was giggling a little. Jesus, he was _really _drunk..

"Who are you trying to catch?"

"'Jus someone."

Jeff saw four cop cars coming towards the park, no sirens and no blinking lights. They stopped, blocking the street and causing the group to turn their way. It was the lead-up to the shoot out at the OK Corral.

"Bingo! The asshole's here!"

Jeff looked over at Jason, he was grinning like a kid who'd just won a new bike. Shit, the trap was to lure the cops, probably so these idiots could deal without any interference. Jerks. Then, oh crap, looking closer he saw one of the cops getting out of the second squad car, there were sergeant's stripes on the sleeve of his uniform jacket and he seemed to be in charge. The man was almost a block away but he was sure; it was Dick Grayson. It had to be him, the build, the way he carried himself—it was him and he was walking into a trap.

Instantly, without real thought or plan he gunned the car, revved the engine and aimed the machine directly for the group of men waiting to kill the police.

The car rammed through the non-barrier of low hedges without slowing, headed directly for the men by the drug cars. Disbelieving then running for their lives as they realized that the car wasn't going to stop he drove straight through the other side of the park at sixty miles an hour, circling around to where they'd entered through the now missing bushes and saw the chaos of cops, drug dealers and patrons hoping to make a buy. More police cars arrived within seconds—they must have been waiting in the wings—and the dark park was flooded with light from head lights, search light and helicopters overhead.

Neither stopping nor slowing, Jeff peeled away while the police were busy with the bust. The news the next day would report no injuries when a dozen and a half drug dealers were apprehended in the park during the middle of one of the largest buys in the city's history. The ease of the arrests were credited to a unknown driver who distracted the dealers then disappeared. A reward was being offered for anyone who had information of the owner of a dark blue Toyota with Gotham plates.

Jason slept off his drunk with no memory of his Christmas drive with Jeff who left the next day for three months research off Australia.

He said nothing to anyone about what happened, though he redoubled his Internet surfing to following the careers of both Sergeant Grayson and Nightwing.

He now knew what he could do.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

**  
Part Nine**

**Conclusion**

Another year and a half passed, Jeff received an offer from National Geographic to write an article to accompany the incredible photos Wood's Hole had brought back from the Mariana's Trench last month and he was beginning to make a name for himself as a careful and innovative researcher. Sergeant Richard Grayson had disappeared from the BPD active duty roster without explanation and he was unable to find anything about the young man no matter where he searched.

The newish vigilante, Nightwing, was still active, though and Jeff was convinced that was Dick in a new costume.

Bruce Wayne continued the playboy gig with varying success since he seemed to be tiring of the game himself, going about the society circuit with what seemed to be less and less enthusiasm.

Well hell,maybe he was finally growing up. It had to happen some time, didn't it?

Or maybe he was just bored.

Jason was back in jail, no surprise. He'd been in a bar fight, he was drunk and the other guy ended up dead after being hit over the head with a full bottle of scotch wielded by Jeff's big brother. He did make a point of visiting him when he was in the area which, thank god, had only been once since the sentencing.

And today.

"So, you know I really wanted to thank you, Jeffy—I mean it. No one else from the family gives a rat's ass and here you are in the flesh. Honest to god, you're okay."

"Yeah, well...so you're all right? You holding up in here?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure." He smiled at the carton of cigarettes Jeff had brought, along with the magazines and the new Stephen King.

"So look..." Jason leaned closed to the glass partition. "I know you like to keep an eye out for Robin, right? I have some news for you, a kind of payback for not forgetting me,. Y'know?"

What the hell? "Is something going to happen?"

Jason looked around the room. "Yeah, you see him, you tell him to watch his back and to stay away from the gambling ring over at the track, okay?"

"Something's going to happen to him..."

"That's all I'm sayin', okay? That's it. Jeffy, you see Mom, you say hello for me, okay?"

"Yeah, sure, but..."

"You're a good kid, you always were and now you're a big-shot."

The guards signaled the end of visiting hours.

"Keep your nose clean, kid. Write a letter sometime from all those fancy places you go, okay?"

Jeff nodded as he stood up top go. "I will, I promise, a letter and pictures, too. Take care of yourself, Jase."

The guard had his elbow and was pulling him away. "You know it, kid."

* * *

Robin. No, Nightwing was in danger and Jeff suspected that if he sent a letter to GCPD, to Commissioner Gordon that it would be passed on. Dick wasn't working for BPD anymore and he'd left under the cloud of some kind of internal scandal that had been hushed up.

That was something Jeff didn't understand—how could someone like Grayson, with his brains, his training, education and access to anything he wanted, how could he end up floundering the way he seemed to be? It didn't make sense.

There had been that mother of all screw-ups when he (Dick Grayson or Nightwing, same thing, right?) was supposed to marry that alien woman from the Titans and the infernal mess that turned into. There was his dropping out of school; two of them, in fact, both Hudson and GU. There was the record of him buying the circus his family used to work for and then the damn thing burned to the ground...Jesus, the guy was on a straight roll of craps the last couple of years.

He shook his head at the latest news. Well whatever. Be that all that as it may, he was going to keep doing what he'd decided years ago when he first realized the kid was head and shoulders beyond being just a rich man's charity case.

He was going to be his silent back up, his early warning device and his secret Santa. It would be his second career, his hobby and his pleasure to do it.

* * *

"So, what happened with that gambling racket you were working on?" Batman paused in his keyboard typing when Dick walked out of the shower, grateful that their years long estrangement seemed to be over. He'd missed the young man.

"Strange. I was about to make the bust, all ready to go in and when I got there I found that GCPD had beaten me to the punch—seems someone tipped them off. I ended up just going home and making an early night of it."

"Lucky you."

"But the weird thing is I have no idea how the cops got the bust before I did. I've been working on that case alone for three months and..."

Bruce stopped and looked over at the young man and took a couple of beats before speaking. "Don't let your ego write checks you can't cash—that's how you get hurt. Be grateful the bad guys were stopped—that _is_ the point, isn't it?"

"But that means they have contacts I don't."

This time Bruce actually smiled. "Do I really have to remind you that you're not the only one who fights crime for a living?"

Giving up, Dick just shook his head.

* * *

Another year passed, mostly uneventful aside from Dick—or rather Nightwing's work with the Outsiders, a new group with some of his old Titan friends. While it was good to see one another again, it wasn't the same and he ended up being a part-timer, happy to come if needed but content to spend time on his own as well.

He moved to New York; a new city, a new beginning.

He needed a reason to be there, at least for public consumption and ended up letting Bruce pull some strings (and donating over ten million dollars to grease the way) to get him the curator job at the Cloisters, a subsidiary of the Metropolitan Museum of Art over on 5th and 82nd. This was their Medieval free standing building way the hell uptown in Tryon Park, a fabulous recreation of a French Cloister, most famous for it's Unicorn Tapestries. Dick spent weeks cramming middle ages art, architecture, costume and anything else he thought might be needed. The existing staff clearly thought he was a light-weight dilettante until he opened his mouth to prove he actually knew what he was talking about (enough to bull his way through, anyway) and agreed that he would be useful to help raise funds from Wayne's extensive circle of monied friends.

And he could use the sub-basement as his base of operations.

Settled in, he tried his hardest to really be a good head of the place, snowed by the endless ass-kissing, endless paperwork and social requirements but did his best to take it with good grace.

He learned to hate his day job.

And he had to get Nightwing established and trusted, something he'd just through the wringer with down in Bludhaven. Gypsy circus kid or not, truth be told, much as he embraced a new challenge, this was starting to get a little old.

Okay, 'uneventful' was a relative term.

One afternoon while eating a sandwich at his desk he thumbed through the latest Scientific American, his eyes catching the by-line on an article about new developments in extreme deep sea submersibles. The author was Jeffrey Tabor, Ph.D.

Jeff, his old tutor; nice to see he was doing well and that answered the unasked question about how he was doing in his career now. On impulse he googled the name and found several pages of hits for the man, including an announcement that he'd be lecturing at the American Museum of Natural History the coming Thursday, three days hence.

Well, what the hell. It was just downtown and it wasn't like he didn't have a reason to be curious. He hit the intercom button, "Hey, Marge, could you get me a ticket to...?"

At seven-thirty he walked up the steps, showed his credentials and was shown to his reserved seat in the front row. There was god turnout and as the program started Dick was impressed by how Jeff had grown in confidence and as a speaker. He was articulate, obviously immersed in his field and entertaining. He clearly loved what he did and conveyed that, sharing his wonder at the vastness of the world's oceans.

Afterward, after the end of the talk, after the Q and A was finished Dick made his way over to where Jeff was standing with about half a dozen admirers. Waiting his turn, he held out his hand, "Jeff, it's good to see you again—and I enjoyed your talk." And in case he'd forgotten, he added, "'Dick Grayson. You were my tutor a few years ago."

Taking the outstretched hand, Jeff did his best to go for cool, professional, unimpressed but pleased. "Good lord, it's been years; you look well, life must be treating you right."

"'Can't complain. Look, I understand if you're booked, but if you'd like, I'd love to catch up over dinner or a drink when you're done here."

Jeff looked around at the thinning crowd and hoping to god that Grayson really did just want to catch up out of politeness and wasn't going to grill him about...things. But, "'Sounds good, say half an hour?"

His commitment to the lecture finished, Jeff and Dick walked down Central Park West, making small talk, until they came to a decent looking bar/restaurant. "This okay for you?"

Jeff gave the posted menu a quick once-over. "I can never eat before one of those things, if that's okay with you."

Dick nodded, "I'm hungry myself, c'mon."

They strolled a few blocks downtown, it was a nice night and the city itself was at peace, or as much as it ever is. Finding a decent looking Italian place they checked out the posted menu and went in. Seated, beers in front of them and their orders given Dick started the conversation.

"I keep seeing your name in the paper and on the Internet, you're doing well; didn't you just get a permanent posting to Woods Hole?"

"Last month, yeah."

"'Life's dream, wasn't it?"

"Pretty much, uh-huh." Jeff emptied half of his glass. "And you ended up a museum curator. I have to admit, that surprised me when I heard."

"You heard?" Most people wouldn't have a clue who curated their own living room, let alone a place in New York.

"I guess I've been keeping up with you, too." Dick gave him a look that made Jeff feel like he was about to be interrogated and not in a good way. "I mean, after I spent a month and a half tutoring you when you were hurt, I felt involved, y'know?"

"Not really." Dick kept up his steady look. "'Not to split hairs, but frankly you were a temporary employee for less than two months there and it's not like we've been exchanging Christmas cards."

Jeff stalled for time, wishing he'd never agreed to have a drink, let alone dinner with Grayson. "You're not exactly low profile."

"In fact, I am. It's Bruce who gets the gossip headlines. I'm just...me." All right, that was a bit disingenuous.

The waitress arrived with their food, causing a small break in the tension Jeff hadn't realized was as thick as it was.

Dick glanced at the woman, mumbled a soft 'thank you' and waited for her to leave. "In fact you've been keeping an eye on me since you left the Manor when I was sixteen, despite the fact that you haven't had any reason to since then. Is there something about me you find particularly interesting?"

"Um, no, no, it's just that you're, y'know, smart and ..."

"And related to Bruce Wayne? Or is there more to it than that?" Like maybe you think I used to be Robin, making Bruce Batman?

"No, no...nothing more."

Dick considered his options. He'd known for years Jeff at the very least strongly suspected his other life, the question was what to do about it, So far he hadn't done anything untoward or which could cause harm or damage. The silence was making Jeff uncomfortable, really uncomfortable.

Without warning Dick smiled, his entire body relaxed and he morphed into a genial, warm and friendly young man. "How's your food?"

"...Good. 'Yours?"

"Not bad. So, when do you leave to go back to sea? Man, I read that you were with that first expedition down to the capitol of Atlantis—that must have been incredible, did you meet the King and get a real chance to actually look around or were you guided the whole time?"

"It was incredible, we were allowed access to just about anything we wanted..." From then on the conversation flowed easily, two old friends catching up and enjoying one another, or so it would seem to anyone watching.

An hour or so later, meal finished, the two men stood on the sidewalk, saying their amiable goodbyes. Their hands were still clasped when Dick smiled and commented, "You know, Bruce gets upset if he thinks someone has a hidden agenda when it comes to him or people he cares about. He's...protective."

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing, I'm just saying. 'Good to see you again, Jeff. Be careful on that ship, I hear they can be dangerous if you don't watch yourself. 'Take care."

2/13/10


End file.
